The Forging of Heroes
by DarkFacade-88
Summary: Soul Edge, the mighty blade, is sought after by all manner of hero and villain. But what were the lives of these heroes and villains like before the knew of the blade?
1. The Forging of Heroes

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Soul Calibur. Did you really think I did?  
  
PROLOGUE – THE FORGING OF HEROES  
  
The story has been told many a time in many ways, many forms, in prose and verse, in ballad and poem, in anecdote and epic, in sonnet and song. It is a story that has survived the test of time, a tale that will endure the passing centuries.  
  
It is the story of a woman born of darkness and raised as high society. Her family died away, leaving her the sole survivor, destined to carry on its newly fashioned legacy. With her bizarre weapon, she continued her shadowy mission.  
  
It is the story of a loyal vassal, fiercely chauvinistic to his lord. He was a man of few words, who only bowed to his one and only master. He was ever-faithful, ever-watchful, and sacrificed his sight and voice for his dead lord, guarding his legacy eternally.  
  
It is the story of a demon manifested from nothingness to life. It had no life, no memories, and no knowledge of anything around him. All it had was the ability to leech off of others, taking their knowledge, their memories, and their lives.  
  
It is the story of an orphan who was taken in by kindly elders and trained in the way of the warrior. He was a brave and daring youth, but he could not save his dearest friends when he was taken by chaos. Now, he can only regret what he did that day.  
  
It is the story of a nobleman, the lord of a prosperous family who was abandoned by his relatives and hunted ruthlessly by his former friends. He had no home now, a wanderer who only found some hope for humanity in a kind young girl.  
  
It is the story of a mercenary known to all those as the fearsome One Man Army, the mighty warrior. He had no fear and never met one who could best him until his fateful run-in with the barrel of a new weapon which changed his life forever.  
  
It is the story of a pirate, the dandy of the seas, a man with a trustworthy crew and the sea at his back. He knew happiness each day until the grim morn when his crew was slain by a murderous monster. Crushed in body and soul, revenge is what drives him now.  
  
It is the story of a ruthless fiend, a murderous brigand who sailed the seas and turned the oceans of the world red with innocent blood. He laughed in the face of danger and brought a storm of horror, grief, and chaos to every place he went.  
  
It is the story of a young man fighting for his country, a reckless youth on a quest. He fought, in his mind at least, solely for his homeland and sought the blade that could defend it from all forces that dared raise so much as a finger against it.  
  
It is the story of a mistake of nature, a monstrous golem created for a single purpose. He strove towards his goal, torn between the services of each of his masters, each goading him towards the ultimate might to take that power for themselves.  
  
It is the story of a ninja who was turned on by her brethren. Her dearest friend, the man who'd acted like a father to her, betrayed her as well and put a price on her head. Now she must pursue a different course...a course that would lead her to Soul Edge.  
  
It is the story of a forsaken warrior of a destroyed clan, now vengeful and filled with wrath. His clan was annihilated and he now seeks revenge on those responsible. But a different path presented itself and the warrior, seeing the best way to retribution, took it.  
  
It is the story of a priestess, a young mistress of the winds, not yet of age. She was the last of a dying breed in a time when western influences reigned. When the darkness spread to her lands she found the key to stopping it...the destruction of Soul Edge.  
  
It is the story of a heroin who took up the cry against Soul Edge when her sister could not. Angered at the gods for causing her sibling such pain, she heralded the fight against darkness and went on a great quest to destroy the horrible blade.  
  
It is the story of a girl of a warrior's line, raised as a fighter and skilled in war's ways. By order of her homeland's lord, she searched the world for the blade that could bring salvation to the Ming Empire and finally confronted the sword, her power against its.  
  
All heroes have their stories, each important in their own way.  
  
But heroes and villains are like the blades they wield; as mighty as they are, as many battles they have seen, they must still be forged somewhere, made with skill and careful attention to each detail, strength and weakness. Indeed, a hero must be forged in the fires of life.  
  
All heroes have their stories...  
  
Now we can see where these stories began... 


	2. The Sins of the Father

Disclaimer: Not Namco, never bloody been Namco. Don't own SC2...but I might someday! *maniacal laughter*  
  
Alright, for future reference, this story generally will have about three chapters about each primary character and one or two chapters about the lesser characters or souls from SC1 or Soul Blade. Chapter-wise, each character's order of chapters will be in chronological order, but the story as a whole will not be.  
  
Thanks to my first reviewers. I'm glad you like my other writing, though you find this stuff much more serious and probably better by literary standards.  
  
Ok, this first chapter is more morbid, less action-y, but I have some very action packed chapters on the way. This one will take longer to update, though.  
  
CHAPTER 1 – THE SINS OF THE FATHER  
  
'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this pretty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.' -Macbeth, William Shakespeare  
  
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The rain fell like aimless bullets, spraying waves across the dirt-covered cobblestones. The woman's clothes were practically torn from her back as she struggled against the blustering winds.  
  
She wore a torn hemp shawl and a number of woolen scarves wrapped around her neck and face. Thinner strips of cloth were pulled over her arms and shoulders. Her thinning blonde hair was flung asunder, flailing wildly. Her pale face was cold-looking and his cheeks were deeply sunken. The cold was mighty, but she endured, pulling her feet forwards and bracing them against the cobblestones of the pathway. She wore only bands of weak and worn leather pulled around her sore feet. The soles of her feet bled now, hampered by the jagged stones and debris.  
  
London was filled with smoky fog broken apart by the downpour. There were more houses in this congested part of the city. The shops that lined the streets had been bundled away. The windows' rotting wooden shutters were bolted. There were still some shops on the sides of the various paths on days of better whether. There were wheel-less carts, makeshift stands with wooden boards for mounts, and any number of cages, boxes, crates and bags. All of these, though, had been removed or pushed into the murky stairwells of the underground apartments.  
  
The storerooms were all emptied for the winter season. There were slippery strips of ice between the cobblestones and snowy slush where puddles had been. The snows of the season hadn't come yet, but the rain was icy enough, freezing fully upon its arrival on the ground. The denser streets gave way to grassy paths that led in various directions towards the larger buildings. Blades of grass and shriveled leaves on the ground were dusted with frost and pulled about by the winds.  
  
The woman made her way through rusted iron gates, two swinging grilles of metal spikes dulled by time's winds. The pitted iron of the looming fence was worn and decrepit. She found herself on a smooth path of shaved stone, twisting lithely between two whitened fields of grass beneath a number of small trees. The trees' branches were wrenched in each direction by the storm, some splitting against the immense pressure. Rain-blanketed piles of leafless branches were flung uncaringly into the spiraling anarchy of nature.  
  
The woman, glancing around with irritation and regret in her cold eyes, she proceeded up a set of broad marble stairs and onto the patio of the vast mansion that sat, seemingly shrouded in an ominous shadow of cloud, before her. It seemed to have a certain grandness about it, but also a veil that was cast upon the woman headed towards the looming set of doors between a pair of grotesque stone beasts set on pedestals flanking the door.  
  
The door creaked open before she reached. It did not fully open, only letting a sliver of light from within peek out at the darkness of London.  
  
"Mother! Come in out of the cold before you catch your death. We've been awaiting your return for near three hours now and were starting to become concerned."  
  
The woman looked down at the smaller figure who stood before her. The look in her eyes was as cold as ice and twice as cynical and she stepped inside, her soaked clothes dripping on the polished tiles.  
  
"You say 'we,' but I suspect it is merely you who has been waiting."  
  
"Of course not, mother. Father was just as concerned as I."  
  
"Then why is he not here to greet me? Let me guess, he is still 'confined' to his laboratory, meddling in affairs he should not be worrying about. Tell me, Isabella, am I right?"  
  
Young Isabella Valentine's relieved expression faded as her head lowered and moved slowly up and down, nodding glumly as she helped her mother inside. She had been invited to dine with the lordly family of Earl Hallward, who lived in another great mansion in London. Members of her family were often invited to stately events throughout the city, to dine or merely converse with the other members of England's high society. Such was the popularity of the Valentines....though that popularity had been dwindling lately.  
  
"I'm sure he is just as concerned as I, though he does not show it." Isabella tried to smile, shedding some merry warmth on her cold and obviously melancholy parent, but the heartfelt gesture failed to alter her mother in the least. Countess Valentine turned to her daughter, who continued speaking as she did so.  
  
"Pray tell, what took you so long in coming home? Was there a problem with the coach?"  
  
"There was no coach." Countess Valentine almost cut her daughter off with the blunt reply as she turned away, sighing wearily.  
  
"No coach? But you left in one. Surely you did not leave the coach and walk all the way to the Hallward Mansion! It's on the other side of town, and in this weather."  
  
"I did no such thing," her mother responded sharply, almost snapping. Isabella winced, instantly regretting her prying into the details of whatever incident had occurred. Countess Valentine regained her composure within an instant, as most upstanding noblewomen should, and spoke more gently.  
  
"Forgive me for that. As you can no doubt surmise, I am not in the best of moods. I did indeed take a coach, but I found that I had no money for the return trip."  
  
Isabella concealed an indignant gasp. Her family was one of the richest and most prosperous families in England...or at least it had been. For one of the Valentines not to have funds for a simple coach trip across London was simply unbelievable.  
  
"Surely the Hallwards would've have paid for your ride."  
  
"They offered to, but I refused. How do you think we would look if I accepted money from someone? I may have had to brave the streets of London, but my dignity remains." A thin smile crept across her features.  
  
Isabella did not reply, watching Countess Valentine turn fully and walk as nobly as she could into the grand foyer of the Valentine Mansion, making her way tiredly down the left set of stairs that led to the gleaming, polished floor of the great hall.  
  
The mansion's expanse stretched deep into untouched corridors. Many halls and rooms had not been used in ages, completely neglected by the owners. Now, cobwebs spawned in the dark corners of the mansion, of which there were many. The place was degenerating before Isabella's very eyes as she sat and contemplated the fact each day. She had lived life in the lap of luxury, loved by and loving of her wonderful parents. The girl was unfamiliar with hardship of any kind. In fact, the nearest thing to hardship she'd ever encountered was the brief period when she lost a prized necklace given to her by her mother, which was found within a half hour. Her life went on in a state of prosperity, but her whole world was spiraling out of control.  
  
Nearly a year ago her father, Count Valentine, had begun spending more and more time in his personal section of the house, a danker and more imposing mess of corridors and catacombs. Somewhere in the mansion's bowels lay his laboratory, which Isabella herself had never seen. All she knew was that she did not wish to see it, as it represented the primary focus of her father's obvious addiction. Now, he would lock himself away in there for days, severed from all ties with the outside world. He was becoming reclusive and sickly as he ate and slept less and less.  
  
Isabella, taking a deep and calming breath, followed her mother into the great hall.  
  
Suddenly the clicking of boots against the floor could be heard, echoing eerily about as Isabella stopped in her tracks, watching her mother do the same.  
  
Count Valentine, looking amazingly energetic for someone so newly frail, was walking briskly down the hall and towards them, looking almost giddy. His silhouette could be clearly seen heading towards his wife and daughter, though his wide eyes seemed to be looking past them both.  
  
"Oh, hello dear." He said warmly to his wife as he passed. Unfortunately, the whole point of that warmth was lost when he breezed past her, not even bothering to comment about anything else. Isabella stepped in front of him as he prepared to do the same to her.  
  
"Father, you look very pale. Is something wrong?"  
  
"Certainly not, Isabella, I'm actually feeling very good today." said Count Valentine brightly, his stern tenor elevating slightly. Despite his fine demeanor, the brisk tone of voice did not conceal his pale expression, emaciated form, and obvious illness. His face was as white as snow and his cheeks were sunken and devoid of color. His eyes had no true fire in them, only an almost insidious gleam that made Isabella uneasy.  
  
"Where are you off to?" she queried, noting that he was in traveling clothes.  
  
"That is not your affair." he snapped, his gleeful attitude shifting in an instant.  
  
"I believe it is. You need not conceal your life from your family. We only wish to know what has occupied you for so many days and nights, keeping you from the outside world. What need is there to keep secrets from your own flesh and blood?"  
  
He halted, unable to think of a way to respond. She was right and he knew it, but it would not be right to tell her what he was doing. She would object, as would his wife and anyone else who found out.  
  
"You need not know, it is unimportant." He said bluntly, turning and pulling his heavy coat tight around him as he strode up the stairs to the mansion entrance. Isabella looked after him, wishing she knew what to say that would make him stay. She wasn't sure if he even cared to know the miserable experience his own wife had suffered. He was just too busy with his own unknown life.  
  
"We have fallen out of favor, Count Valentine," she said coldly, addressing him no longer as a relative but as an acquaintance as her expression became grimmer. He stopped before he reached the door, swiveling around to face his daughter again.  
  
"Since when have you cared of our favor? You've always been content with your life as it is? Has your breeding made you so vain, Isabella Valentine?"  
  
"Our funds are running out beneath our very noses, father! The letters I send to royal court and our former friends are no longer replied to. More and more members of the upper class have shunned the Valentine family. We are slowly being ostracized and you have done nothing about it!"  
  
Isabella had challenged her father before, but it had never been about such a venomous subject. She saw her mother behind her, silent and slate-faced as she listened to the heated discourse between her daughter and husband. Isabella Valentine knew that this must cause great pain to her mother, but it had to be done nonetheless.  
  
"We can survive on what money we have." Count Valentine shot back, turning again towards the door, "Do not worry yourself with ostracism. We do not need the world, Isabella. The Valentines have always prospered and will soon prosper again..."  
  
He turned fully, his heavy cloak swinging behind him as he said something else that Isabella couldn't hear over the rasping metal sound of opening doors.  
  
The door slammed behind him, the iron clang wringing eternally in Isabella's mind.  
  
He would return from wherever he had gone...but Isabella Valentine new he would never be the man he had been when she was a child. When she was young, she'd seen a happy light gleaming in his eyes, but now all she saw was that demonic glint, hatefully glaring at her as if it had a mind of its own. 


	3. A Farmer's Son

Disclaimer: I don't own SC2 or its characters....or do I?....No....or do I?....No.  
  
A special thanks to jadephoenix for accidentally teaching me some Japanese.  
  
CHAPTER 3 – A FARMER'S SON  
  
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space, rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;" -Darkness, Lord George Byron  
  
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The farmlands of Bizen had never been calm. Perhaps once and every so often in the dainty crevices that lingered in between frequent warring and raiding. Heishiro could not remember a time without war, a time without fire on the land. He was content to farm the land and keep it as his father wished, but he no longer saw any use in trying to rebuild after the raiders passed and destroyed each new crop where it stood.  
  
Now the first snows of the season had fallen, coating the fields that lay before Heishiro in a calming white hue. It made the boy, only recently turned fourteen, more tranquil and sedated his fiery thoughts. He closed his eyes, looking out from beneath the eyelids upon his homeland.  
  
"Heishiro, come. You have not eaten in too long. Do not linger."  
  
Heishiro sighed deeply and turned, dragging his feet through the snow. Do not let your brothers devour all the food before you've had your fill." Heishiro's father almost forced the laugh as he walked towards his teenage son, "Why do you hang your head, Hei-chan? Does something trouble you?"  
  
"No..." replied the boy, raising his head to look upon the smiling face of his only remaining parent, "It is nothing. I just do not like winter. The cold is bad for our fields. I yearn for spring and my spirits will return when it has come, otoo-san."  
  
"Good. I am glad that you finally show some concern for the farm. Soon you will be just as adept at farming as your old man and I do not doubt you will surpass him." He grinned from ear to ear, but Heishiro knew that his comforting warmth was only a façade. Life for him, his father, and family was degenerating as the raids continued.  
  
"I don't want to surpass you, otoo-san. I will merely assist, I will not replace you."  
  
Heishiro's father put a firm but tender hand on his son's shoulder, his eyes twinkling in a strangely melancholy but proud way, he looked at his son, his smile slowly fading, "Hei, you must someday. You may not be the oldest of my children, but I prize you as much as I do your brothers. You must all learn the ways of life in this time of civil war...Since your mother passed, we all had to continue...The same must happen when...when..."  
  
Even though he might not have continued anyway, his voice fading, Heishiro's father was interrupted by a set of raucous yells that echoed off the sky's very walls. He turned swiftly, looking across the untouched whiteness of his fields.  
  
"Raiders, Hei-chan," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Get to the house, hurry!"  
  
Heishiro didn't move. His face slated as he looked out, almost immobilized, at the silhouettes plastered against a grey horizon. They were taller than men, so they must have been on horseback. Heishiro could clearly see their weapon shadows cast on the snow as they galloped wildly back and forth, randomly hacking at the air and the few remaining crops that stood. The horsemen came slowly into full view, weaving around each other in a disorganized clump like a band of bellowing brigands.  
  
"Come." Murmured Heishiro's father again, clamping his usually gentle hand onto his son's arm and pulling him backward, "They cannot do that much damage. They have no need of us, so they will leave us alone if we do not trouble them."  
  
He pulled his son reluctantly backward, half dragging him as the slush grew deep and harder to extract one's limbs from. The two of them stumbled awkwardly towards the small house Heishiro lived in as the mounted raiders scattered about the fields, chopping down whatever they could with their crude blades, mostly farming implements altered to look more imposing.  
  
"Otoo-san, we cannot let them do this any longer!" cried Heishiro, breaking free of his father's grasp and staggering forward into the knee deep, ice cold water formed one of the many puddles that pockmarked Bizen now, "We cannot just move out of the way when they come and allow them to have their way with our land!"  
  
He pushed himself up from the water and clamored onto the colder snow coat of the ground. He snatched the hoe that he had dropped before and clutched it firmly in both hands as he sprinted towards the marauding raiders. He did not hear his father's frantic cries as he shot towards his family's foes.  
  
"You!" he cried, "Get off of my father's property now!"  
  
One of the horses wheeled around suddenly, swerving nimbly on its hooves. Heishiro stopped in his tracks and narrowly avoided falling backwards as he found the horses wet muzzle less than a foot from his face. The beast snorted indignantly as the rider looked down on Heishiro, grinning stupidly as he assessed the teenager.  
  
"Your father's property, eh? I did not think peasants owned anything around here. This property belongs to those who are strong enough to claim it and I have formed the opinion that I am much stronger than you, little whelp."  
  
The other steeds maneuvered about, the primitive looking folk on top of them looking with perverse glee as their leader brought his horse forward slightly. Heishiro pulled the hoe in front of him, holding it like a naginata, and narrowed his eyes at the man. He had to step back as the steed cantered forward, edging him closer and closer to another large depression filled with melting snow and mud.  
  
"That is your opinion. You may be stronger in body, but I have the stronger will. Any man who seeks to gain from the loss of others is weak!"  
  
The horse almost bounced forward, flicking Heishiro backward like a fly. The boy was sent sprawling into the slush, the hoe in his hand clattering onto the frozen layer of ice. Heishiro scrambled up and tried to jump forward and grab the makeshift weapon, but the horse cut him off sharply and he fell again as it blocked his path suddenly.  
  
"Insolent runt!" roared the marauder, "I'll make sure that you never open that drivel-spouting mouth of yours again!"  
  
Heishiro clearly saw the man drive his heels harshly into the miserable steed's haunches. The beast swung sideways from the impact, now facing Heishiro, was was on the ground groping for something to use as a weapon. He found nothing and turned again to see the horse backing up and picking up momentum for a charge. The marauder atop that animal raised his own menacing looking weapon and grinned evilly, a sinister glint in his eye.  
  
A thousand thoughts coursed through young Heishiro. He was such a fool. He had wasted his life because of his damned stubbornness and pride. He braced himself for the impact that he knew was coming. His eyes shut firmly as the horse ploughed forward and...  
  
He heard a slicing sound over his head and indeterminable noises that were probably horse hooves on either side of him. A moment later, he distinctly heard a loud thump to his left. The boy's eyes sealed fully, still expecting a swift blow...none came.  
  
Slowly, his eyes drifted open and his head turned towards the sound of the thump.  
  
Beside him lay the body of the marauder with half of an arrow protruding from his unarmored chest. His warm blood seeped out onto the whiteness around Heishiro as he stood up hurriedly, backing away from the limp heap of lifelessness that had been a living man less than a minute ago. He had seen death before, but the sudden jolt of seeing that face, devoid of all color except the crimson that was gurgling from its lips, had knocked a forceful sense into him.  
  
The man's horse was braying madly and circled behind Heishiro, taking off immediately for the other end of the field, followed closely by the remaining bewildered brigands. The 14-year-old turned again to see another steed halt expertly beside him, pawing the snowy ground beneath it impatiently.  
  
Atop the new animal sat a man who could've been mistaken for a brigand, but obviously wasn't. He had a stern face and gait, but a more noble air about him as he lowered his longbow. He looked down with sharp, keen eyes at young Heishiro and goaded his horse forward.  
  
"You're awfully young to be trying to fight off mounted raiders." He said calmly, a pleasant and nonchalant demeanor very visible in his gruff voice.  
  
"Young or not, I must still defend my family's land." Replied Heishiro, almost meekly. He had a defiant nature towards most people who patronized him, but this man had just saved his life and deserved better than that. He bowed his head slightly as he saw his father rush up to him and the rider with the bow.  
  
"Many thanks, my friend." said his father, also bowing, "You have saved the life of my son and my land. I do not know what I can possibly do to repay you..."  
  
"It's Ieyoshi, sir, of the Urakami Clan, that is what I am called. You need not repay me. I did not slay that wastrel because he attempted to dispatch your son, I slew him because, like all of his kind, he is blemish to this nation as does not deserved life or the luxury he receives from it. I accept your thanks, but no more than that."  
  
"We can offer you something. Some food, drink, rest, anything you need that we can procure is yours."  
  
"No, sir. I need none of that. The Urakami Clan provides for me well enough and my duty is done here. Those brigands will not trouble Bizen again and that is all I care about."  
  
Heishiro's father nodded contemplatively but Heishiro stepped forward suddenly and took the horse's rein, which severely alarmed the horse and seemed to annoy the rider. It was a bold gesture, which Heishiro had put no thought into, but an ingenious idea had formed in his mind.  
  
"Kind sir, though you do not wish it, I will repay you in what way I can."  
  
Both Ieyoshi and Heishiro's father looked at him for a moment. Heishiro's father looked both puzzled and appalled, while Ieyoshi looked puzzled and intrigued.  
  
"You are a member of the Urakami Clan, correct?" said Heishiro boldly. He barely gave time for the rider to nod glumly before he continued, "Take me, then, as a disciple of your clan, to train beneath you and serve your lord. It is the least I could do."  
  
"Hei-chan, you do not know what you're saying!" exclaimed his father, pulling him back from the horse. Heishiro looked at him swiftly and spoke quickly in a whisper, "Otoo-san, this is my chance. I can learn the way of the warrior and defend our home from those who would do it harm. I will repay my savior and learn an invaluable skill. Also, he said that the Clan of which he is a member provides for him. If they adopt me, you will no longer have to make food or room for me in your household. It is the best way."  
  
His eyes sparkled with a stern eagerness. Heishiro's father saw this, his own face souring as he looked at his youngest child. The rider beside them pulled his horse around and it lumbered over to the boy and his father. Ieyoshi of the Urakami Clan looked down on the teenager, his eyes prying into the child as if trying to unlock him like a door. He leaned down slowly, eying Heishiro, and then promptly pulled himself back up.  
  
"The Urakami Clan accepts your service. What's your name, boy?"  
  
"Heishiro, sir." replied Heishiro, drawing himself up and puffing out his small chest to look as imposing as a teenager of his age could look. Ieyoshi grinned for the first time and drew the horse sideways so that its flank was facing Heishiro.  
  
"Mount, Heishiro-chan. There is a long journey ahead of you."  
  
Suddenly, the boy realized what had happened. It seemed to him that the last day had been but a dream which was now focusing into reality. He'd just signed his life away to man he hardly knew and a clan that might be filled with boorish heathens...But it was too late to turn back now. Everything had gone by so quickly, so swiftly and without warning. He barely knew what was going on.  
  
Despite the protesting cries of his mind, Heishiro swung himself up onto the horse behind Ieyoshi just as the animal dashed forward. He looked back as the world slowly began to stop spinning around him and saw his father and the white fields around him disappear. 


	4. Treasures We Seek

Disclaimer: Me no Namco, me no own SC2, me no own nothing.  
  
Thanks yet again (and again and again and again) to my first reviewers. When this fic is complete, I will no doubt go over it and edit the whole story into a full form. .  
  
CHAPTER 4 –TREASURES WE SEEK  
  
"Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express a flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:" -Ode on a Grecian Urn, John Keats  
  
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The light in the room was a luminous as the noonday sun. It filled every bright crevice, extinguishing darkness like a weary flame.  
  
The five handcrafted sterling silver chandeliers dangled conservatively on the infinitely tall ceiling. A broad golden line from chandelier to chandelier revealed a spectacular pentagon of light. Grand columns of alabaster and gleaming marble supported the inner corridor surrounding the circular room. The peach-colored floor tiles were overshadowed by a circular strip of interwoven satin with sparkling golden tassels for fringes. This carpet was neatly trimmed to congruence with the columns and reflected the chandeliers' light in its fine embroidery.  
  
At the end of the room was a wide niche with a short staircase leading up to it. A finer satin carpet intertwined with lace stretched along the ramp. On the slightly elevated platform sat a polished golden podium with a cardinal-colored cushion nestled on top. Despite the fact that nothing lay on the podium, it was still rather grand, like every other object in the room.  
  
A number of small semicircular tables with scarlet clothes stretched over them lined the sides of the room, each covered with silver and porcelain plates and platters. All sorts of edible delights covered these platters desperately alluring to any passersby.  
  
The room itself, augmented by these accoutrements and delights, stood as a wonder all its own. The furnished pentagon on the ceiling surrounded a gargantuan symbol. Carved into the portal was swirling cursive V which curled wistfully across the marble. The symbol was magnified by the warm chandelier light and loomed over the rest of the room.  
  
Vercci gazed at the V and swelled. He inwardly patted himself on the back. It was truly a masterpiece. The room had been carved from five slabs of perfectly sliced marble, the finest that could be found. Every known mineral of value had its place there. It was fitting enough of his wealth, if not his pomposity as well. He patted the loose bulge of his waistcoat pocket, hearing the metallic jingle from within.  
  
There was probably very little that Vercci did not posses. He owned everything of value known to man. His vast coffers were filled with all valuable ores, metals, gems, and crystals while his vaults were lined with the rarest of artifacts and items. Of course, there were the chosen few things out of his grasp. Most of these unearthly possessions were daydreams. Prizing his valuables, Vercci had always dreamed for a life in which he could eternally treasure them. But, as the arts' rebirth had drawn to a close in Europe, these petty wishes were more fantastical than material. Vercci would leap at the opportunity to receive immortality, but did not show optimism towards the fact.  
  
"Mister Vercci?"  
  
Vercci's daydreams were interrupted by deafening and irritating reality. He was not alone in the room. Vercci's thinking had merely channeled out the other voice that now shot at him quizzically.  
  
"What...what is it?" Vercci's gruff baritone showed annoyance as he spoke.  
  
"Umm..." The nervous attendant stuttered, glancing away from Vercci's face, his own features looking oddly pallid as he groped for words.  
  
"Have you misplaced your senses, boy?" growled Vercci. He did not like being interrupted at any time. It was one of his persistent idiosyncrasies. He always like to know when someone else was near so he was never taken by surprise, since he considered it a sign of acuteness if one was never taken by surprise. He had developed that habit into an art, teaching himself how to look completely calm when addressed with news that would've caused a weaker-minded man to temporarily lose control of his faculties.  
  
"No, no, sir. I merely wished to inform you that...that Voldo has returned."  
  
"Oh, has he now?" murmured the man, turning, "That is fine, then. Go about your duty, boy, and pester me no longer. I am in a most contemplative mood and do not wished to be disturbed for the remainder of the day...Is that perfectly clear?"  
  
The attendant nodded energetically, knowing never to question his mighty employer, and spun around. He shot through the huge inlaid doors as swiftly as an arrow.  
  
Vercci looked back up, scanning the room with a flourish as he swiveled about in place, his keen eyes stopping to rest upon a grand column at the other end of the room, one of the two that stood firmly beside the set of doors, looking very imposing to those who entered. He let out a strangely disappointed sigh.  
  
"You can come out now, Voldo." He said to the column.  
  
From the darkened shadow behind the pillar emerged a figure wreathed in the shadows he carried. The figure had a thinner form, but that was masked by the heavy frock coat draped over his shoulders. He was not tall, not large, not imposing in any respect. He merely skulked forward towards Vercci, practically flitting through the very darkness of the room.  
  
"You should not attempt espionage, Voldo, you are very bad at it." Laughed Vercci, turning slightly as the figure of Voldo edged towards him slowly, as if calculating a reason for every step as he walked.  
  
"I believe I did well, master." said a cold voice, devoid of real, noticeable feeling, from beneath the golden mask that covered Voldo's face. The voice, despite the obstructing mask, could be heard clearly through the gaudy device strapped to Voldo's balding head.  
  
"Perhaps to some, but you're more shady of abilities have waned lately. You may still be superb on any battle plain, but you could not hide to save your own life."  
  
"Warriors do not hide, master. You taught me that."  
  
"That may be, but I also told you that only the finest can serve me. You are my greatest vassal and I expect you to know all there is to know. If I have everything, you must know everything so the balance of servant and master is exact. Your loyalty may not waver, but that does not make you great. Power makes one great, Voldo. I have money, money is power, and I have power. It's as simple as that."  
  
Voldo did not respond immediately. Vercci knew how his chauvinistic vassal calculated all before it was done. That made him precise and accurate in whatever endeavors he pursued. Voldo could do many things, countless things, in fact, and that was how Vercci like it. Voldo was his elite, his best, the warrior who would unflinchingly serve him to the very end.  
  
"As you say, master." Said the vassal curtly, bowing slightly.  
  
Vercci swelled, contemplating. He knew Voldo had a lot to say, but the vassal dared not contest him and that was the way both of them liked it. Vercci loved preaching his will to Voldo, one of the only men who would listen with the utmost intent to his pompous oration.  
  
"But," he continued, "Power must be savored, Voldo...Which is precisely the reason I sent you on that errand."  
  
Voldo nodded obediently. Vercci had dispatched him to survey buy-worthy vessels in the nearby port. Even though Vercci could've paid a more knowledgeable seafarer to pick out suitable ships, he knew that Voldo was educated in the subject as well and would do the job willingly.  
  
"What do ships have to do with the savoring of power, master?" queried Voldo, not really asking the question as much as he was prompting a response.  
  
"The vessels you surveyed are to be bought, Voldo, by me. I have decided to indulge myself somewhat and make a rather extravagant purchase. I am going to sponsor a small fleet of ships to journey out into the Mediterranean under my command. The ships that you deemed most seaworthy will be the ones I use for this trip."  
  
"And the purpose of such a voyage is?"  
  
Vercci paused as Voldo lowered his masked head, as the vassal always did when he wasn't speaking. Finally, he turned to his servant and spoke again.  
  
"To savor power one must be able to make it last. My wealth will be with me forever, but my forever only extends to the end of my life. The only way to make my treasure eternal is to be with it eternally. That is why I am heading this voyage. Voldo, I am going to find the one thing that can make both my life and my wealth last until judgment day and beyond."  
  
Voldo's eyebrows shot up beneath his mask, even though Verrci couldn't see that.  
  
"You seek the legendary sword?" he said at last, with more of a quizzical air in his voice than usual.  
  
"Yes, that is the greatest treasure. It may not have any true value on the battlefield of commerce, but it will give me the greatest treasure that can be sought. For it is the treasures we seek that make us. Some may want glory and others may want crowns, but all I desire is that, the eternal satisfaction of my wealth."  
  
"As always, master, I will follow you to whatever end lies ahead."  
  
Voldo bowed dutifully. Vercci moved towards him, inspecting the vassal.  
  
"Voldo, if you wear that mask for the duration of your service to me you will never witness the glorious achievements of your master. You never give me a full explanation of your reasoning. We have a long journey ahead of us and I am now more desperate to know than ever before. Why must your face always be hidden?"  
  
Voldo continued bowing, his head still lowered, "Master, I need not my sight to see your wealth, nor my ears to hear your words, nor my voice to question you. I am your servant and my senses will not change that. As I have told you time and time again, I wear the mask so that I will not be distracted from my duties. Were I to go truly blind, were I to truly lose my sight, my voice, my hearing, and even my very sanity, I would still serve you without question. It shall always be thus. Serving you is the treasure I seek, as you have taught me."  
  
Vercci did not speak for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he paced around Voldo, who straightened up and went neatly rigid.  
  
"As usual, your logic is an enigma, but I understand. We will depart in two days from Palermo, sail briefly to Corsica, and then scour the lands around this sea. I have already dispatched several other mercenaries to find the blade, but I doubt they will be successful...except, perhaps, that one..."  
  
"Which one, master?" Voldo's full calm composure had returned as he stood, looking straight ahead as Vercci strolled briskly in circles around him.  
  
"A Spanish buccaneer, Cervantes de Leon. I would have thought twice about enlisting a Spaniard, considering the war, but this captain is loyal to naught but gold, which I offered him a great surplus of. If any of the mercenaries in my employment finds the blade before me, it will most definitely be him."  
  
"We will find it first, master. I will find it for you. I swear it."  
  
Vercci sighed and walked around his servant again, heading for the door.  
  
"Pack what things you have, if any. We will not return for a long time."  
  
Voldo turned, skulking along in the shadow of his master.  
  
"I need nothing. I see nothing I need, therefore I need nothing."  
  
"Sometimes, Voldo, your twisted philosophy is actually intriguing."  
  
"It is the philosophy you taught me, master. Your words are the only ones I hear." 


End file.
